harrypotterfanonfandomcom-20200223-history
User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 32
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Two 21 September 1974 The flat was dark. Minerva frowned and put her hand on her wand. Alastor might simply have fallen asleep waiting for her, although at least a few candles should still be burning, and she would have expected him to wait up. She always waited for him when he was late—waited and tried not to worry, tried not let visions of him lying broken and alone in a field somewhere take up ominous residence in her thoughts. The idea that Alastor Moody had been relaxed enough to have gone to sleep before she arrived—more than two and a half hours later than he’d have expected her—was laughable. Hand still on her wand, she touched the knob, and the familiar warmth passed through her as the wards shifted to permit her to enter. She stepped into the dark hallway, debating leaving the lights off, but she decided that if anyone was lurking in the shadows to attack her, he or she already knew Minerva was there, so she called out, “Alastor?” before lighting the candles with a flick of her wrist. There was no answer, and a chill went through her. Ridiculous, she chid herself. He’s just gone out. At half past ten? To the pub, then. But Alastor never went to the pub. Other than a pint or two on a weekend afternoon or a glass of wine with dinner, he didn’t drink except when work or social obligation demanded it. Until recently, anyway. She had no idea what he’d been doing with his days since he’d been suspended from duty, but she couldn’t help noticing the flask that had appeared at his side the one time she’d convinced him to go out for a walk with her. He wanted her to notice it, she thought; it was a challenge, to see what she might say about it. But she’d said nothing. Instead, she listened to his rages and, increasingly and more disturbingly, his black Irish silences, thankful when August had wound to a close and she could return to Hogwarts accompanied by a pang of guilt at leaving him to his own devices in a small flat with little but brooding and drinking to occupy his time. He wasn’t telling her the full story of his suspension, she knew that. He’d admitted to “going a little hard” on a suspect, but he hadn’t told her why, and it worried her. “Mistaken identity” was all he’d said before he’d gone on a tear about how no other Auror had ever got so much as an official reprimand for using excessive force on a wizard suspected of illegal activity. Minerva could have asked Amelia for more information—what kind of force he’d used and who the victim had been—but she hadn’t. She found she didn’t really want to know, and it shamed her. She hung her cloak on the hook next to the door and went into the dark kitchen. Someone was sitting at the table, very still, silhouetted in the moonlight that came in through the back window. She whipped out her wand at the same moment she lit the candles with a wandless spell. “Alastor, you scared me. Why are you sitting here in the dark?” she asked, lowering her wand. “Waiting for you.” She exhaled with relief. Stowing her wand back in its pocket, she went to get a glass and filled it with water to wet her dry mouth. “I’m sorry I’m so late. Last-minute school business.” She took a sip of the water, then moved to his chair and kissed him quickly on the side of the head before taking a seat across from him. He said nothing, just sat watching her drink her water. When she put the glass down, he said, “You’ve hidden things from me before, Minerva. Plenty. But that’s the first time you’ve ever lied to my face. I’d stake my life on it.” Despite the water she’d just had, her mouth was dry again, and the creeping sensation of guilt picked at her chest. There was no use denying it. Not when Senior Auror Alastor Moody was peering at her, both eyes focused on her face. For the first time ever, she wished his magical eye would roll around in his head, scanning for danger, as it usually did. She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. I was—” “I know where you were.” The guilt tightened into anger. “How?” He said nothing, so she repeated, “How?” Silence. “Alastor, how did you know where I was?” She needed him to say it. “I followed you.” “When?” “Tonight. When you left the school.” She hadn’t seen him, but he must have been standing there all day, waiting for her to emerge from the gates. “I had to know,” he said. “To know what?” “What you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been going.” “And you didn’t trust me?” “Should I?” It was like a physical blow to the belly, and she lost her wind for a moment. And when the moment was over, a simple fact presented itself: she had to leave him. It had been buried deep within her for months, but she hadn’t wanted to confront it. Now it had burrowed up through her skin, and it could no longer be ignored. As she pushed her chair back and stood, he stood too, saying, “You can’t tell me you’re angry. You? When you’ve been sneaking off to do things for him.” “I’ve been doing things for the Order.” “Oh, and when almighty Dumbledore asks, you’ve got to jump, even if I ask you not to, is that it?” “I’m not having this conversation again, Alastor.” She picked up her glass and carried it to the sink. “Do you love him?” She whirled around, and for a terrible moment, she felt like hexing him. His voice was thin and plaintive when he said, “I wouldn’t blame you for it. But I won’t have you coming to my bed directly from his.” The glass missed him by a few inches and shattered against the wall. She stood with her teeth clenched, rigid with the effort of keeping herself in control. She wanted to run at him, to claw at his face, to beat his chest with her fists, or maybe to fall on her knees and beg him to forgive her. She studied his face, his dear, patchwork face: the silvery lines that told of his courage, the pit at the end of his nose that itched him damnably in the middle of the night, the piercing blue of his remaining eye that so often seemed to see right inside her. She’d looked at that face for thirteen years, seen it torn nearly to pieces, watched it knit together again, but never had it frightened her as it did in this moment. The face he wore now was nearly blank, like a glamour that didn’t quite work. There seemed to be nothing behind it. He took the flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink. Finally, she said, “I don’t recognise you, Alastor.” “And I never knew you at all, did I? Not really.” And with that, it was over. There was nothing more to say that wouldn’t be pointless scourging one another with months’-worth of poison. She walked out of the kitchen and retrieved her cloak. He didn’t follow. She felt the whisper of his magic as the wards reformed after she’d closed the door and wondered if she’d be able to get through if she turned around to go back in. Her hand got to within an inch of the knob and hovered there a moment before dropping to her side again. She spun on the spot and Apparated away. 5 January 1975 “Come on, Moody. Up and at ’em.” When Alastor opened his eyes, he was greeted by a wave of nausea and the sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s smooth face too close to his. “What the—? Budge up, Shacklebolt, or I might decide to puke on you.” He pushed against Shacklebolt’s broad chest. Shacklebolt moved back, and Alastor swung his legs over the side of the settee, knocking over a Firewhisky bottle that clanged and sent pain-needles shooting through his head. He ran a cardboard tongue around his mouth to try to wet it before speaking. “What’re you doing here? It’s Sunday—we’re off.” Panic gripped him. He stood too quickly, and his belly turned over. “Relax, Moody,” said Shacklebolt.” It’s still Sunday. You haven’t missed any work.” He eyed the fallen whiskey bottle and its neighbour. “Yet.” Alastor rubbed his eyes and sat back down. “So why are you here? Something up with the Rutland case?” “No.” At Alastor’s frown, Shacklebolt said, “There’s an Order meeting. You’re going.” “What do you know about it?” “A little birdie told me.” Christ, I hope it wasn’t me. But it couldn’t have been. He’d never let himself get drunk where anyone could see him. “Who?” he asked. “Let’s just say that you’ve got a liability.” “Fletcher.” Shacklebolt said nothing, and Moody belched. The taste of stale liquor filled his mouth, and his stomach gave another sickly protest. He said, “I told Dumbledore. But he thinks Fletcher’s safe.” “He’s got something on him,” said Shacklebolt. “Everyone’s got something on him.” Shacklebolt chuckled. “So, you joining the Order?” asked Moody. Shacklebolt looked away and fiddled with the handle of his wand. “Maybe.” “Good for you. Enjoy the meeting,” Alastor said, lying back down. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.” Alastor wasn’t going to any fecking Order meeting ever again. Not after the last time. That first one after Minerva left him had been like a prolonged application of the Cruciatus. Sitting across the room from her, watching her but pretending not to … wondering why the hell he had said those things to her. Scratch that, he knew why he’d said them. It was bloody simple. He’d wanted to hurt her the way he was hurting. He didn’t really believe she’d been having it off with Dumbledore. But the worry for her safety, his annoyance at Dumbledore for letting her risk herself—and, yes, his jealousy, he could admit that—had coalesced into a simmering resentment, then exploded into fury when he discovered she’d not been telling him about her “missions.” It felt as if she and Dumbledore had a life, a secret life, that he was no part of. And then she’d lied to him directly. That hurt. He’d told Minerva he was looking forward to his enforced “vacation.” “Finally,” he’d said, a few days to relax and spend with her. While that hadn’t been strictly true, he had thought it would be better than it was. Minerva would be there with him, and spending the entire week alone together before she had to report back to Hogwarts was an enticing possibility. But it had turned out to be a nightmare. She’d had work to do—a pile of pre-term paperwork and some project he was sure had to do with the Order but that she’d been evasive about, telling him that it was “Transfiguration research.” And there were doubts, growing and festering in the rich, dark soil of unspoken questions. She’d only asked him once about the incident that had led to his suspension, and he’d mumbled something about mistaken identity, embarrassed, but half hoping she’d press the issue. She hadn’t, and that surprised him. No, it infuriated him. It was as if she’d given up on him already, just like those sods at the Auror Office who conveniently forgot about thirty years of good work once the great Alastor Moody had shown a moment of weakness. Ah, well. He’d not made many friends there, with his uncompromising principles and his record number of collars, almost twice what Scrimgeour had ever made. No one loved you for showing them up. But Minerva … he’d expected her to care. It had only ever happened because he loved her so goddamn much. And he’d wanted her to ask, so he could tell her. So he’d taken to having a nip or two of Firewhisky to quiet the voice that said it was because she didn’t love him. Then, too quickly, a nip had become a glass, and glass a bottle. He’d always been so careful with drink, but after Minerva was back at Hogwarts and never coming back to the flat, there seemed little point in being careful about much of anything. Still didn’t, truth to tell, but he didn’t want the other Aurors to know he’d gone soft, so he kept it well out of the office and did his drinking at night and on days off. It wasn’t a problem. But somehow, Shacklebolt had known. As soon as he’d been bumped up to full Auror, the young man had angled to be Moody’s partner—Christ only knew why—and he didn’t seem to care that Moody was no longer at the top of the heap. He was still standing there looking expectantly at Alastor. “Bugger off,” Alastor said to him. “I will. Once you get to that meeting.” “Why do you care if I go to some bleedin’ meeting or not?” Shacklebolt scuffed the soles of his shoes against Moody’s dirty floor before answering. “Because I think it’d do you good.” Moody grunted, and Shacklebolt said, “You’re still okay at work, Alastor—I’ll grant you that, but if you keep on the way you’re doing, the time will come when you won’t be. You and I aren’t exactly best mates, but one thing I do know about you is that you need to work. You need a cause. And I happen to agree with you about the Death Eater situation. The Ministry is mad to keep ignoring it, and I’m not the only one that thinks so. You working for the Order helps us, and it helps you. You’re no good sitting around doing nothing, that’s ruddy obvious,” he said, nudging one of the Firewhisky bottles with his booted toe. “Listen, Shacklebolt, there’s things you don’t—” “You’ve got to face her, Moody.” He said sharply, “Oh, and you know about it, do you, Shacklebolt? Expert on women and Disillusionment charms, are you?” “No. But I know a souse when I see one. And you didn’t start being one until after Professor McGonagall’s picture disappeared from your desk.” Shacklebolt pointed his wand at the dead soldiers and Vanished them. “It’s your choice, Moody. You can sit here and stew in your juices. Show up for work on Monday and go through the motions then come back here and drink yourself into a stupor at night. Or you can come to the meeting and do what you were born to do. It doesn’t really matter to me either way, except I don’t fancy having to cover for your sorry arse when you finally go down for good.” Shacklebolt looked at his shoes for a moment before continuing. “And it won’t matter to Professor McGonagall. You can’t change that. But you can change things for yourself. And keep fighting the bad guys. Better than fighting yourself, anyway.” “Get the hell out of here, Shacklebolt.” The young man nodded, then turned and left. Alastor shouted after him, “And I’m changin’ the wards again, so don’t bother coming back! Partner or no!” One hour and two teaspoonfuls of Hangover Potion later, Alastor found himself shifting from foot to foot on the doorstep of Jones’s house. Bugger all. He banged on the door hard with the heel of his hand. It opened to reveal the startled face of Hestia Jones. “Moody! I … come in.” He said, “Afternoon, Hestia,” and pushed past her into the small entryway. The sitting room was less full than the last time he’d been there, and there were a lot of people Alastor didn’t recognise. They all looked up when he entered the room, and he wanted to turn around and run out as fast as he could, but he stood his ground, clearing his throat loudly so they’d know he wasn’t trying to sneak in like some slacker. When he looked at Shacklebolt, the young man gave him a subtle and respectful nod of acknowledgement. “Good to see you again, Alastor,” said Dumbledore before continuing with whatever he’d been on about before Alastor arrived. Minerva was sitting to Dumbledore’s right, and she looked at Alastor when he came in, but quickly turned her face back to her notebook. Jaysus, but he could use a drink! She was gold and he was the Niffler, but he refused to allow his eyes to be drawn to her during the rest of the meeting. The meeting was adjourned, and Alastor hung back, having made the decision to speak to her at least, show her he was still alive and kicking, but he was accosted by the Prewett brothers. “Great to see you again, Auror Moody!” said one of them—he couldn’t tell which. “The Order needs more trained men like you.” The other twin added, “Yeah. Too many housewives here.” “Some of those housewives actually could have become Aurors. Unlike you lot …” Moody turned to see Molly Weasley looking at her brothers with murder in her eyes. Alastor smiled at her. “It was a sorry day for the Aurors when you decided to get married instead of joining up, Madam Weasley.” “It wasn’t exactly her decision, was it Mols?” said one of her brothers, elbowing her in the shoulder. “Little Billy kind of decided it for her.” Molly reddened, and the twins laughed. Moody said, “I’d watch yerselves, if I were you. Your sister is far better with a wand than either of you lads, if I remember your field-trial scores rightly. Guts count less than brains in a duel. Too much of one without enough of the other will get you killed.” Both Prewett brothers just laughed again, eerily in tandem, and one said, “Reckon he’s got us there, Fabe.” Offering his hand to Moody, he said, “Glad you’re back.” Alastor shook Gideon’s hand and was about to speak when Fabian caught sight of someone and stretched a long arm up in a frantic wave, yelling, “Oi! Hold up there, mate!” and the two young men bustled away. “It is good to see you, Auror Moody,” said Molly. “It’s ‘Alastor’ to you.” “And I’m Molly.” “How’s Arthur?” “He’s well. He’s home with the boys tonight. Percy’s got the croup, and I was stuck inside all day, so he told me to come. I needed some adult company.” “I’d expect so,” said Alastor. He saw her glance to her left and followed her eyes to where Minerva was standing close to Dumbledore as he bent near her ear so she could hear him. When Alastor looked back, Molly was gone. His eyes shifted back to Minerva. She had seen him, and it seemed as if she was going to come over. He took a step toward her, then saw Dumbledore put a hand on her arm. She turned back to the old man, and he bent down to say something to her. She nodded and opened her notebook to make a note. When she closed it and took off her glasses, her eyes found Alastor again, but by then Edgar Bones had gone up to her, and she turned to speak to him. He said something, and she laughed—one of her genuine laughs, Alastor could tell—and she said something that made him laugh in turn. Alastor just stood there, feeling like a firstie at a Hogwarts ball. To hell with it. She didn’t want to speak to him. Why would she? He’d hurt her, and she’d left him. He should let her get on with it. He fled before he could change his mind. And once he was outside, all he wanted to do was go back in and find Minerva … apologise for the things he’d said, ask her to come back to the flat so they could talk, and finish the day in bed, him worshipping every inch of her. But no. That was for someone else now. Someone who wasn’t a washed-up drunkard with a mug like a shattered mirror. Shacklebolt caught up with him as he trudged down the path to the un-warded part of the garden to Apparate. “Look, Moody …” “What?” “I’ve decided not to join.” Alastor nodded. Shacklebolt said, “Dumbledore says we need friendlies inside the Ministry, and anyway …” He scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “I’ve just made full Auror status. I don’t want to—” “You don’t owe me any explanations,” said Alastor. “Can’t say I blame you.” “So are we square, then?” “Yeah. We’re square.” Shacklebolt’s face relaxed, and Alastor started walking again. He called over his shoulder, “But don’t ever pull another stunt like today’s. I don’t appreciate being ambushed in me own flat.” “Got it. Partner.” Alastor just grunted and Apparated back home. He lasted four more hours before he had a drink. ← Back to Chapter 31 On to Chapter 33→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A